Curio
by shhhh im hiding
Summary: "Eyes as bright as the sky focus on him, warm breath making opaque shapes in the winter chill. The quiet words make him shift on his spot; the mood has changed so abruptly, all he can think of to say is a whispered, 'Yes,' that seems to linger, with the snowflakes, in the air." / A soft, slow UKUS romance, though that's not what it's all about. / Full summary inside.


**FULL SUMMARY:**

13 years ago, America fell, hard and fast. The land of the free became a land of ruins. After all this time, some countries decide to risk it, and maybe take some land for themselves, only to find out that their former superpower wasn't as gone as everyone had believed.

_"Eyes as bright as the sky focus on him, warm breath making opaque shapes in the winter chill. The quiet words make him shift on his spot; the mood has changed so abruptly, all he can think of to say is a whispered, 'Yes,' that seems to linger, with the snowflakes, in the air."_

A soft, slow UKUS romance, though that's not what it's all about.

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**WARNINGS: **Currently vague plot (what? lol), cursing, violence, future slash, American spelling, a comma-happy author, many headcanons from the littleaphheadcanons Tumblr blog, present tense, author's dabbling in writing styles, run-on sentences, err... that's about it right now.**  
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A/N:** UKUS is the only confirmed pairing right now. If I totally maul this pairing... Sorry sorry sorry. Prologue may be rougher than other chapters, apologies. I like describing details and writing dialogue better than setting the stage for scenes, guhh... The lyrics under PROLOGUE. are from Snow Patrol's The Lightning Strike.

_I don't own Hetalia_.

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**PROLOGUE.  
**_What if this storm ends?  
And I don't see you as you are now ever again_  
_A perfect halo of gold hair and lightning  
Sets you off against the planet's last dance_

**-;-**

England finds him outside, standing frozen, under an umbrella the somber color of obsidian. It is a stark silhouette among the muted colors of the empty parking lot, dark and contrasting against the snow that is quickly turning into slush. America's shoulders are slumped, his head ducked, and England falters briefly, not knowing whether to feel upset or angry or worried.

He sighs, a sound that gets lost in the loud _shhh_ of the rain. Pulling his own umbrella over his head, he sets out towards the younger nation just as lightning illuminates the sky. "Oi, git!"

America jerks his head slightly in surprise, but doesn't turn to look at him. Thunder booms overhead; loud, sharp, distant. "Hi, England," America says. His voice wavers a bit, as if he can't quite decide how to sound.

"Hi?" England echoes. He tries to ignore the odd quality in the other's voice and steps closer, wishing he could fold his arms. "America, why the hell aren't you at the Conference?"

"Um." America shuffles his feet. He waits for a few seconds, and then, ignoring England's question: "The other guys sent you to find me?"

"Yes," England says, frowning disapprovingly. "Everyone's waiting."

America glances up and meets England's eyes just as there's another lightning strike; his glasses flash, and the fine, golden strands of the hair on his head are outlined with light. For a split second, with the brightly forked sky as a backdrop, he looks ethereal, fey. Resplendent. Then the split second of brilliance is gone, and England is shaking his head in bewilderment.

"They're always waiting, dude," America says, sounding annoyed. He sneezes loudly, making England grimace. "You, too."

Thunder shakes the sky again, louder this time. "Excuse me?"

"Waiting. For me," America says, gripping his umbrella tighter. England looks at him in puzzlement, because his tone makes it sound like he has something else to say, something important, and suddenly America is smiling now, bright and sunny and fake. "Man, it's getting too noisy out here," he says, changing the subject. He starts making his way to the building before England can respond, his shoes slapping onto the wet pavement. "C'mon!"

England frowns again, but follows anyway. He waits until they're near the building before asking, "What were you going to say?"

"Huh?" America coughs behind his hand, scrunching up his face. England looks away.

They reach the doorway, and as they're shaking the water off their umbrellas, England repeats, "What were you going to say?"

America looks at him blankly. "Say?"

"Oh," England huffs. "You know." They step into the building, lightning flashing behind them. "About waiting, for you. You were going to say more, weren't you?"

America actually looks thoughtful for one moment before grinning at England. "Nope," he says, popping the last syllable. "And if I was, I wouldn't tell you!" He sticks his tongue out when England looks indignant.

"Why the bloody hell not?"

"'Cause I don't _need_ to!"

"It's _be_cause, you prat— and _what _do you mean by that?"

America pauses, and England almost thinks that he'll answer, but instead America grabs, clutches the neck of his shirt and starts coughing — a horrible, scratching sound that seems as if something is trying to crawl up his throat.

"America," England says in alarm, placing a hand on his shoulder. Fortunately, the coughing dies down swiftly, and America is left furiously rubbing tears from his eyes. England realizes he's still holding America's shoulder and lets go. "All right?"

"Uh," America grunts. He swallows twice, blinking rapidly. "Think they—" He clears his throat, tilts his head towards the door where the World Conference is being held. "Think they heard that?"

England looks at the door and shakes his head. "Those wankers are probably—" They hear something shattering, someone cursing in their own language, and a few others guffawing inside, and England lifts his thick eyebrows as if to say, _Answered your question?_

America laughs. It is raspy, and he stops; England has to bite his tongue from saying anything. They stay there, silent and still, a few steps away from the door. Then America steps up and kicks it open with a cheerful smile, yelling, "The hero's here, dudes!"

And as annoyed shouts of, "About time!" and "America, you idiot!" reach England's ears, he can't help but feel as though he knows exactly what America had been about to say outside.

They are all waiting.

Watching, with those terribly knowing eyes — even the younger nations have caught on and keenly do so, though the older ones are worse. And while some of the countries are grim, worried, and some are apathetic, others are _oh_-so-smug, looking towards America with something unmistakably predatory in the tilts of their heads, the curves of their lips.

Behind closed doors, muffled murmurs of, _'Soon...'_ and hushed whispers of, _'Only a matter of time...'_ can be heard in abundance, already damning the subject of the conversation before anything has truly happened.

And that is _justified._ It _is. _After all, they reason, it is inevitable. If Britain could fall, if Spain could, if Rome could... All the great ones _have_ to fall sometime, and, no matter how many times he calls himself a hero, America is no exception.

Even so, America seems to continue on in front of the others as if nothing is happening. He still shows up — not counting today — to meetings, full of upbeat grins and loud, energetic laughter — but every time he coughs, every time his laugh falls flat, every time his smile wavers... Their gazes turn a little sharper, a little more observant.

Every single time America slips up, the dark thought churns away in their heads: _Is it going to happen today?_

England grasps his folded umbrella tightly, making the scant remaining raindrops _drip, drip, drip_ down to the tiled floor. America had noticed them watching. Had accused England of doing so, too.

England stares at his damp hands clasping around the umbrella, and realizes it is true. He wants America to crash and burn and lose that goddamn innocence that doesn't, that _never_ has gone well with being in the seat of power. He wants him to stop acting so young and stupid. He wants America to drop all his unrealistic ideals.

He wants all of that, but he also doesn't want America to get hurt too badly. He wants America to fall, neatly and quietly, and then to mature as fallen nations are wont to do, and then maybe try to become a superpower again. England believes America can do that.

But that does not happen. America will never merely collapse, quietly drop his role as a world superpower; no, he will plunge head first, face slamming onto the pavement, and disappear completely with his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth gritted, his body cracked and scratched and bleeding all over.


End file.
